Lev. 20:13 "If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed; they have forfeited their lives."
This was said to make sure the population on earth grew, which it did. God was NOT saying this because it will always be wrong. They are just regular people and this is where they belong. Homosexuals are the same as everybody else. This is equality that they strive for because no one is better than the other. We are all from the same God, and we are all sisters and brothers. This is not a disease and this is not something you can change. They were born like that, it is not something that you were taught. I was born with brown hair, this is not something that is forethought. Why does it matter so much what your ****** orientation is? That is that person's business, not ours to judge. We have no right to judge and all of this homophobia is actually just a carnage. We call ourselves Christian, but is this actually living in the true image of God. Have you not heard "Do onto others as you would have them do onto you?" That is the golden rule and how would you like it if it were heterosexuals that were hated anew?
God made all of His children in His image. Do you honestly think that God would turn away His own children because they were born Homosexuals? With all of this hate and anger, turning away people that could be our friends, well we aren't humans; we are actually animals. Why is it that now they get the same benefits as the people who are straight? Why has this taken so long to do? Are they not the same as everybody else that we know? There are many things that are wrong with society, this homophobia needs to stop so why must we forgo? If two people love each other so much to remain together for the rest of their life, then let them. Homophobia is wrong. God loves all of his children headlong. And to all those gays and lesbians out there, STAY STRONG.

To some it’s all conjectural,
Philosophically conceptual.
You think you’re intellectual
But your reasoning is ineffectual.
Reviled both by heterosexuals
Insulted as well by homosexuals
And some ugly issues contractual
We are the besmirched bisexuals.

While it is the opposite of equality
It is the essence of our reality,
A warped straight-centric morality
Based on a Christianist plurality.

The straights tell us we must decide
Then put the other gender aside.
The complaints range far and wide
Even gay people opt to deride.
We don’t feel welcomed anywhere inside.
Why doesn’t tolerance coincide
When nobody seems to take our side?
It’s freedom, get on the bus and ride.

While it is the opposite of equality
It is the essence of our reality,
A warped straight-centric morality
Based on a Christianist plurality.

We know, after years of research
Gender choice is not learned in church.
It can be shaped with rods of birch
But those are better for birds to perch.
Denying us freedom is an ugly lurch
Past including truth in a morality search.
Back to when we were ruled by a church
And any variance was besmirched.

While it is the opposite of equality
It is the essence of our reality,
A warped straight-centric morality
Based on a Christianist plurality.

There is ***** for sale and wombs for rent
For same *** couples it’s cash well spent.
While heterosexuals breed their own
Gay couples, as yet, cannot clone.
A lesbian couple who had the itch
is suing their ***** bank for “bait and switch”.
They wanted a Caucasian baby
and had requested ***** from vial “380”.
The donor of that ***** was white,
Handsome, smart, just “not their type”
They were given another’s ***** instead
And an interracial child was bred.
It seems they were given vial “330”
The vials, it seems, were marked unclearly.
An honest mistake by a nearsighted boomer?-
or one with a twisted sense of humor?
A civil suit will go to trial
seeking damages for a mixed race child.
If their motion to dismiss should meet denial
The “bank” will suffer premature withdrawal.
In which event bankruptcy looms
For the bank that supplies the ***** for wombs.

So there are
heterosexuals
and there are
homosexuals
and there are
bisexuals
and even
metrosexuals,
but I am
unisexual,
so I married myself
quite awhile ago
and me and me
have been having
a wonderful love life
ever since,
so I don't *******
very often,
and I hardly ever
*******,
so what I do
is to visualize ***
with myself,
who is a beautiful woman
inside
and who are four beautiful men
floating around me,
and then there is
this kind of around the world ***
that is a massive kundalinigasm
which is like a trip
to Mars,
so unisexuality
is my *** of choice,
but as you probably have guessed,
it's not for everyone.

The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.

Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.

The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.

She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.

Late morning after dreaming of these
hand-written Alaskan three-dollar bills
Polaroid photographs of empty silver screens
hidden elevator button escape routes
mid-performance ****** reconstructions
I half-wake from my half-sleep and in seventy-five-cent consciousness
beg the man of my waking misconceptions to meet for one more
one more double latte Marlboro 27 kiss behind the parking lot than we’d ever had
before we part again and he will reunite with his lunchmeat of holiday hopes and aspirations
And I will return to
the land of brotherless love and flaming heterosexuals
the land of ugly **** and self-righteous queers
the land where there is no God because I chased him from the West before he could do me harm
the land filled with my pity and inebriated mindless self-perpetuation
the land consumed with no passion because the Yukon’s landscape eyes are bleak and empty
the land where the only direction is floating down-river to the blood-stained rocks of our maturity
still within my mental prison with my other mental inmates and mental shanks and *****
I dream again with my eyes wide open and lips drawn in two-tier lonely grimace
dream of the blue green red-eyed beauty that I have never known

Just beginning.
Wyd are still young.
Still being educated.
Only 40 years ago homosexuality was still considered a mental disorder.
Now equal rights are still non existent.
Sure since then things have gotten better.
But we still are not equal!
People still laugh when they see two men walking down the street holding hands.
People still thing lesbians are just there for there own nasty pleasure.
Kiss your girlfriend it's hot.
You don't say that to straight couples.
You don't stop and yell out the window when you see them.
You don't tell them to kiss for your own pleasure.
You don't go shoot their clubs.
The world is not equal.
We are no where near equal.
We are still lower than heterosexuals.
We are still thought of as sinners by churches.
We are frowned upon.
Youth are thrown out by there parents.
We still live in fear.
No rights til we are equal
**** right I SUPORT it!

Sticking to what I know best,
I’m just a product of my generation,
****** up and full of ideals,
Thoughts that my parents think they can quell,

But they just help me to rise to my knees, speak, and breathe,
Sorry mom and dad but it is soon to be my world,
And I have time to recreate,

Already biting the bullet since I was an infant,
The hardest part seems to be, keeping me contained,
Since I was raised in such a connected age,

You know I believe gays can get married as long as I perceive,
We already did our adolescent time; let’s search for something divine,

Like tolerance of another,
Not simply because of their skin color,
But because they are a brother,

I think it’s alright not to look to the skies,
For answers Earth can derive,
Like how I evolved from an ape after others went extinct,

Realizing what is best,
Our children are the remedy to society’s unrest,
When you let them develop a tolerant cortex,

We already bit the bullet as we grew,
We already know what must become the norm,

To breed tolerance is to breed the cure,
How can we not embrace those that know better?
How can we not receive those that can remedy this place we call home?

May the racism rise from your veins,
May you realize that two guys loving one and another,
Is as lovely as the way I feel towards my girlfriend,

May you see that children with two mommies or daddies,
Are maybe as happy as I was with the heterosexuals that raised me,

Sticking to what I know best,
I think its right to tolerate,
The processes of humanity,

How precious is it when you can breed?
A tolerant being,
How wonderful when we better a place founded by thieves, slaveholders and maniacs with cufflinks.

To begin with,
We have YOU,
And we have Me.
And we also have THEM, THEY, THEIRS THOSE, WE AND US.
As well, we have:
SOGIES
Asexuals
Allies
Intersexes
Bisexuals
Lesbians
Gays
H­omosexuals
Pansexuals
Queers
Straights
Heterosexuals
Gender Binaries
Afabs
Amabs
Agenders
Androgynes
Gender Blenders
Bigenders
Cisgenders
Cross-dressers
Drag Queens
Drag Kings
Enbies
Gender Dysphoria
Gender fluids
Gender Non-conformists
Gender Queers
Gender Variants
Non-Binaries
Questioners
Transgenders
Transitions
Transs­exuals
Two-Sprits... and
LGBTQIA+
(Flora and Fauna?)

Does Genesis have anything right?

A Grande Iced coffee sweetened with whole milk always
supplied Trey, the Zombie, with energy. On a bright yellow morning
Trey sat down on a canvass deck chair outside of Starbucks.
He puffed on his e-cigarette. Then he took a sip from his plastic cup.
And as he tasted the refreshing creamy coffee, he remembered
what it was like to be a human being. Before the infection decimated
the world’s population of men, women, and children, everybody
was killing each other with double barreled shotguns, sleeping
with their best friend’s girlfriend to prove that they were not
in love with their best friend, forcing girls and women of all
ages into cramped basements leaving them with a bowl of
white rice and a cup of water, telling them that they had to sleep
with strange men who lived in America and other countries polluted
with lust and desire, or else they would get sent to the bottom
of a swamp where the Alligators roamed the muddy shores in
search of flesh. Trey remembered that he had been a college student
living at home, working as a tennis instructor part time at the
rec center down the street from where he resided at.
This little girl Amy bit him on the ankle. It was the first time
he had taught her how to hit a topspin serve with such
velocity that the tennis ball would bounce off the service box
and rise over the chain-linked fence, where the zombies were, crawling
over and up onto the hard courts. As Trey drank his iced coffee
he realized that life was more pleasant now. People didn’t shoot each
other anymore. Closeted gays and lesbians didn’t sleep with their best friend’s boyfriends and girlfriends just to prove that they were heterosexuals. And wicked men with shaggy hair and yellow teeth didn’t buy young girls and women from cramped basements and **** them because they had the money and the motivation to follow their lustful desires. No. None of this happened anymore. Now that the Zombies had taken over. Everybody just went to Starbucks, and drank iced coffees sweetened with milk.

the more i stick to a routine
that might leave a few people in a mental
asylum,
    who would not welcome
frustration, doing the same thing,
over and over again,
   i.e. going to a supermarket and buying
whiskey and coke, becoming "too" friendly
with one of the shop assistants,
    knowing her name,
that's she's diabetic:
i'm only in here for the whiskey luv...
it's not that i mind,
  it's about as close i'll ever become
bewildered at life, in general...
      **** Jupiter and a moon-landing,
this bothers me more,
   i don't get the puppy-eyed look
of people embarking on a philosophical
odyssey -
i don't know why i should be prescribed
the Aristotelian: beginning with awe
  type of management of the subject,
or what Nietzsche predicted,
   and is currently known:
the narrative in the west,
alias: talking for the entire human species...
   that ****** uber-schnurrbart
really did see something...
   now i'm experiencing it,
  it's called 2 billions worth of China and India...
i'm actually, sometimes found,
listening to pointless youtube videos...
  i get it: it can get a little bit *****,
my bachelor status isn't exactly orientated
around diapers, although,
as Borat might have said:
that would be nice...
         you know they filmed that movie
in Romania, and not Kazakhstan?
              it's almost a bid sad to be around
poverty, and tribalism,
     can't make a joke out it,
couldn't make a mid-western gothic out
of it either... what with t.v. in your own company....
and yes, oddly enough...
   i have a bed, and i turn on the radio,
i never fall asleep watching the t.v.,
must be a western thing... you dig?
    1950s slang, more comprehensible than
anything i could ever hear from the slang
quarter of language these days...
   the latin quarter? busy...
literally... greece and italy backrupt...
    so, hey man, what's it like not able
to *** around the country doing factotum jobs?
    what's with that over-arching
castration concept of living with your parents?
ah, you know man,
   ****'s on the stove, and i hit a ****** note
with my saxophone...
sound very much like a wet ****...
you know, the **** you **** that almost feels
like ingesting carbonated water through your ****,
what's the word: trembling, frizzy?
    you know: do the motorboat with your lips...
i woke up today and didn't feel like living,
but the noose wasn't exactly an option...
my grandparent's neighbour?
hanged himself on a door-****,
i was visiting them when it happened...
****'s sake! on a door-****?
                      that's really desperate...
    i mean: i wish i was that guy...
but at least in the case of capital punishment:
when it was still active...
   you got the scaffold... and you dropped...
and your neck broke, and it was death in an instant...
   he had a gimp for an executioner...
   so yeah, life's cool,
i drank that wine i made in less than a week,
35 litres of it...
         i woke up today, thought:
give me the downhill... right now!
i thought i'd delay *******...
          built a quasi lego piece of the Eiffel tower,
then decided... i need to brush my teeth...
had a shower...
              then i cooked dinner...
  well... dinner two days in advance...
one sauce was a spaghetti bolognaise...
another a sauce for cottage (i.e. using beef,
not lamb) pie...
made some funky cool poh-ta-toes...
               for yesterday's roast beef,
left uncarved the previous day by being
left to get the thrill man gets
   ******* and jumping out of an ice bath...
so the juices condense, and you can almost
make out the pink flesh on the second day...
and some ménage à trois.... oh sorry...
too much Dell Boy Trotter in me at the moment:
gosh... the memories of watching that twichy
character on screen... mangetout...
and in between i took off the washing from
the washing lines in the garden...
             faked smoking sitting in the february
cold for a while...
   that's 2 meals in advance that is...
      and this really belongs to a creed that states:
if you can read... it's better to read about
something that doesn't have cars blowing up,
or avalanches... or dams bursting in northen
california... well: it's not exactly
   tolstoy's war and peace... but it's something
that allows for sensationalism of the news
and the odd chance of seeing a good movie...
    or i guess: the antidote to a good poem,
is the worst imaginable poem, actually...
saying that: people call poems bad when
they are rigid in using technique...
poetic technique... i prefer a stance on
spare of the moment / spontaneity than something
that might require a hammer of metaphor
and a nail of a pun...
           some call it innovation,
others can't say much because they're myopic...
and lo! yonder the savannah and the buckling
gazelle! right on the chin...
hoofs, no shoelaces, back legs made front legs
into spaghetti... and there... a plum on the chin...
boom... down onto the green...
          another consideration would be
a man in clown make-up crying,
    and a fat-cat billionaire laughing...
    or was that ever, not the case?
  it has to be idiosyncratic, this english "thing"
of calling laughter crying and crying laughter...
     it actually is a very english "thing",
when you get too much psychology,
about how keeping the word ego can complicate
merely saying i...
  and there's no other latin word in sight,
and you then get egoism, and egocentrism...
    i mean: what's up with that basis for a theory,
    evidently it's a case of the word becoming
too uncomfortable, since no one actually says
  ego cogito ergo ego sum... it suddenly drops off
and people who say the above end up only saying
cogito ergo sum... and is that why people
you can actually ascribe so much theory to the ****** word
that might rob people from having a narrative?
    rob the people of a narrative and you return them
into a state of being pulverised by 5 vectors,
the pentagon of the senses,
    and evidently they're unable to narrate their
day-to-day, because they're herded like wild
hysterical animals... even though they are
given the membrane of civilisation...
      it really is a case of somehow not embarking
into keeping the latin and the north barbarian
words... how can you keep up
with ego, i, self? how long will this italian
**** of bulimia and gluttony last?
     you want to keep spewing that *******
for another 100 years?
evidently there is no theory concerning i,
there's merely an ipod...
              sure sure, you could only derive a
theory if you said the unit wasn't i
(because that would be too personal to construct
a narrative) - but had to be
   the reflective ego, and the reflexive self...
i.e. that string of pronoun compounds known
as myself, itself, himself...
   and when given the scalpel... my self
   (which becomes a reflective stance on meditating
the words, rather than a reflexive pronoun
in its original... no huh? but thump!
on yer bike! go!).
   i call them for what they are...
        yes, and my parents are great,
cooked them dinner...
   just about now, when in the 1970s and 1980s...
when the first cold war was happening,
the americans / the west merely wanted
to feed stories into the soviet union,
if every spying was a c.v. joke, it happened
when ian flemming wrote his series...
   what ever happened to a campfire and telling
stories, or when we told horror stories to each other?
  spying: can you just imagine
what the job description would look like?
pst... it's a secret.
       but you know, the americans had this thing
of telling stories to the "enemy",
     false news...
                it's so obvious now, since everyone
seems to be onto it...
     well... it's happening in england, right now,
but it's not exactly an attack scenario...
it's self-mutilation, yes, a masochism...
  you reach a real dead-end when you tell lies
to yourself... and that's what england is sitting
on: an implosion of well... the n.h.s. in crisis...
the housing crisis...
                 you name it...
  i guess there were many people out there,
willing to sacrifice their sanity, by appropriating
the excesses of c.c.t.v. voyeurism,
mingled with the excesses of ***** that paved
the way to this massive delusion of the next
jain boond to swing on a rope into a gorilla
enclosure and beat the **** out of a 300kg gorilla,
Klitschko style! bang! bang boom!
    silverback gorilla on a torture rack!
job done.
       no, i get it... a girl got to kick-box and a girl
got to play footie... cos girl can...
     wait till she don't get a: fragile heart...
like mine, writing odes about
walking past a church when the church bells ring
eleven times, and there's the moon...
  it will become very very pointless writing
about hearts of porcelain in the future,
      but just as nietzsche pointed out:
imagine talking for the entire human race...
yes, i can, or should i say could? because i don't
have to...
   the western narrative is so up it's own
*** talking about species, while the Moldovians
are talking about Ukranians,
the Poles are talking about Germans,
   the Italians... they talk all the time,
so who cares?
                but it's this globalisation vocabulary
that's halting, and making me think:
the Genghis Khan tribe isn't exacrtly in
the news? they must have neighbours!
they must actually know the people living near them...
well...
   on my street... 6 houses in a row of
identical architecture, i.e. built in the 1940s...
   first house, sikhs...
    parents went to the daughter's wedding,
woman brought over some curry,
   i ended up making even better curry...
my cat is left in their care while i'm away
visiting my grandparents,
   i get this panic attack premonition
  that i need to be back home when i'm away...
   i come back home, the cat is dead...
   we rarely speak these days...
  he was on aspirins, and yes, cats take a ******
long time to die from kidney failure...
ever watch a cat ****? cats take a shorter amount
of time to take a **** than ****...
   watching a cat **** into the toilet it like
watching a person drinking a melchizedek sized
wine bottle...
   a cat could be a man
   as a man taking a **** as in the cat taking a ****
and reading a newspaper...
     seems we're parallel creatures,
  i exfoliate and massage my **** muscles
by taking extra time with them stretched open
once the bombs away passes...
    and i'm just sitting there:
  to vank?! or not to vank? or what i call:
the 3 in 1.
        well, you can't exactly think about
lighting scented candles and doing it in bed,
can you?
      you'd have to be a woman to do that,
and invest in a good ***** replica
of a man that would only tell her:
honey... tree bears.
    do i sometimes think about putting it into
a moist couch-like environment?
   yeah... but i guess ******* is a bit like
doing ****... **** the bone and those muscles man!
   ****? yeah... never did it...
biblical regulations...
              about the same time when
heterosexuals take over from the once famed
taboo provocateurs in the homosexual department...
haven't seen a worthwhile Oscar Wilde come from
that scene for years... maybe i wasn't looking,
ah yes, they're too busy being "normal" and starting
families... funs over... and so is the art.
no wait, all i wanted to say is that
what nietzsche said in the 19th century,
  the anglophone world is trapped in it's own
end product of globalisation, and this whole:
speaking for the entirety of humanity doesn't have
and local thrill to it, no local accent,
      it's scary, to be the only language willing
to speak for the entire human race,
  and, when travelling to other places in the world
realising that you were pretty much:
not thinking, and merely talking to your self...
    i have that taste for foreign cultures...
   you can hardly hear an existential argument
in the same vein as you might hear in england...
     basically... i just think that english is
over-streched...
     in the case of russian, it's stretched:
but contained with interlocking tribes of people...
if i want to hear english sprechen in the pacific
it's a 12 hour flight to australia...
               i can't imagine talking for
the entire human race... and given this
seemingly ancient german, i'm imagining it
as the counter-argument of the current narrative,
because i can't even state that i'm in awe of it,
but more or less apprehensive about it...
given the numbers... the total anglophone world
doesn't even number that of China...
and you know, infiltrating that place with
the complexity of the encoded sounds that are
later echoed back as Xin Ping...
    who lived in Beijing...
            you really have to address either silent,
or talking about something so complicated,
that it would equal the Chinese encoding system...
  otherwise it's falling through the holes...
oh look... q r o p a d b g...
  the best we can do is make silence complicated,
since what i'm hearing: isn't exactly complicated...
on youtube most noteworthy...
   oh right, almost forgot...
the other neighbours on my 6 house line
are a Jewish family... well... sorta...
   just a literal mad-house... we get on fine...
and after that: 3 houses, natives, so yeah, english...
all of them broken families...
   the neighbours next to mine are:
woman in her late 40s... man in his early 50s...
about to have a child...
       after that it's single mother and son,
and after that divorcee and... like... dunno...
     they thought the indians were savages
moving across the pond...
              i'm sitting here having a right old laugh...
and it's a malicious laugh for the laugh in itself...
        last time i remembered
  taking a mouse from the mouth of my cat
after he caught it, and then releasing the mouse
  into my neighbour's garden...
   or a fly... crawling over my forehead
     while i took a selfie to exfoliate my face
like that of an acne riddled moon.

Front page news
Sad times ahead for happy people
Get in line
Politicians losing the whip
Seen gratifying in phone boxes
A liberal conference
Army cuts have seen the Swiss win the neutral war
Big aeroplane playing hide and seek
Same *** marriage plunged into disarray
Heterosexuals revoke clause 69
Mary's got a headache
Migration watch in london spot new species
A rare Nigel
The stay together campaign have run out of money
Independents rolling in the black stuff
Later changed to multi coloured stuff
Guiness drinkers in Swiss tanks demand apology
Women say bedroom tax is affecting performance
Men agree whilst channel hopping
Bald people in North Korea wigging it
Same *** mannequins in Moss bros
Church moving to M and S
S and M on Saturday nights
Hp poets uploading
Beware
Bound to offend some dummies.

we pamper the old as if they were children,
we pamper the children due to their inexperience,
yet we pamper the old due to their experience,
and naiveness at allowing them an extended
childhood, which goes well beyond childhood's
allowance, of so many counted years;
the old are children in disguise, children are
the old in disguise... whatever the balance...
we pay undue respect for either, and leave
ourselves with very little, other than a clumsy cotton
feeling of tending to both.

there was once a national health service
for sure, all the current pensioners
are using it to brimful excess,
respect the aged due to frailty,
**** the youth,
make them so embittered they'll pop up
middle aged torturing pensioners,
by the looks of it...
i can't even get my citizen allowance
of what being a citizen of *such a glorious
beacon of light of western civilization
as england claims to be,
i'll sooner find the cure to my ailments
talking to a coffin that i would chance talking
to a doctor around here, for a pitiful number
(58) of sleeping pills... sleeping pills! for ****'s sake!
maybe genuflecting with a dog-collar
would keep me on the social sonar,
or maybe i'm just a stranded ***** whale
ready for a selfie... whichever...
'if you're expecting a belief in eternity from me,
forget it! i wouldn't want to be stranded with
a bunch of 72 secretaries on a desert island
for 5 minutes let alone eternity.'
now i'll have to down 7 paracetamol tabs
to create a sleeping pill effect...
wait 48 hours for a written form to be filed,
an then hope, hope... to speak to a doctor...
if they're going to privatise the national health service,
they could have done it with a little bit more
decency than the take of: in-your-face... **** 'em.
survival of the fittest? great theory...
survival of the greediest... gluttons galore,
and the rest of it.
i never thought a disease such as a drug addiction
would play the monopoly card on us all,
leaving us stranded in insomniac limbo
for an eerie feeling of wanting and waiting
but never receiving aid - not even allowed
self-medication strategies... just told:
2000 calories is your medicine dosage,
air, water... and a television set...
listen to the pipe piston-maker...
listen to the rat tat tat rapper...
keen eared, ogle eyed... blunt on the scent:
and disinfected on the touch
with the bone-**** of the hand imitating
love and war... apathy and peace and everyone
on the dole - in a society where sickness is
punishable with a slow death rather than recovery,
in a society where self-employment eradicated
social security of a governable state as state worthy
in recognition to the patriotism of cheap football chants
and hymns of splendour,
in a state that eats its people in order that foreign
investment can blossom and in turn
retract to allow such a state to take a warring stance
in investors' vicinity... a puppet state
of disorientated people... where the strong are told
to sit it out... while the mediocre meddle
in organising the strong with the weak to no
distinguishing recognition being allowed...
the people are hardly identifiable with mankind;
i've seen democracy fail a countless times,
and the more it fails, the more its adherents
orate its perfection... only a system that's bound
to fail and in failing be equipped with such
a strategic defence mechanism of astronomical
proportions: esp. among the doomed fate
of non-reproductive organisms as the homosexual
coupling suggests: trample the heterosexuals...
demand slavery of all men, the freedom of women
emancipated from a theocratic patriarchy...
wed them, provide them with children,
and then a divorce... keep the idiots dreaming...
make them wage-worthy and alimony providing.

I feel no kinship with gay culture
Yet I am a *******
I feel no kinship with the heterosexuals either
Yet I lust after unhinged limbs in the dead of night
And I look for a concrete self
In unobtainable categories
That allure and allude me
And 300 people have been sentenced to death in Egypt
But I'm thinking about where my **** goes
And writing poetry about it

it's only of those hellish nights,
suddenly the alcohol is not working
as a sedative,
and you begin internalising
a berserker, and it's not looking pretty,
you're frustrated by
the fact that you left no. 9455 &
no. 9456 unsolved -
    and it's hitting you like
a steam-train,
      the internet connection is slow and
all you want to do is: scribble some
**** on a blank "page" of pixel -
you begin your outlet with mourning
journalists, mongering for pay
from the tech-media giants because their
print on a "real thing" worth of paper
sells less than toilet, paper!
      mind you, at least wiping your ***
with a duvet worth of silk sounds much
better than wiping your *** with a newspaper...
  grr...
i hate these nights,
the nights when the whiskey runs hot
in me, like blood,
and i can only think about starving or mutilating
bodies...
                  my only solace is a music
of groans and screams...
    i hate these nights...
                           and to top it all off,
a revelation...
that phrase: forgive & forget...
that's really ticking me off...
    love your enemy?
the **** is this trash?! ah, right,
crucifix in hand: double-jeopardy...
              how can you fathom
forgiving an enemy, while at the same time
forgiving them?
     i can't exactly the fathomable
synonymous affair being true...
believe when i say:
   it's harder to forget than it is to love...
what the **** are you people
prescribing me, Alzheimer's?!
  an ethical construct whereby i suddenly
transcend an unethical act,
by a miraculous-ness of, amnesia?!
     if only forgetting were as easy
as the supposed "love"...
      i can't forgive, because i can't forget,
likewise: i can't love because
   i am training my memory to
endear a "said" event with true apathy...
         how can you make forgiveness
fathomable with a forgetfulness?
or turn love into an act that's
peppered with an anger that dawns
upon despair?!
                the only forgiveness you can
offer is the one that allows you
to actually forget...
  you don't forgive and forget...
this is a case of a beyond good & good:
    you do know that
allowing forgetting to take place of
forgiveness,
  is much harder than allowing
love to take the place of retribution?
  it's corrosive, erosive,
we already experienced the systematised
erosion of the memory faculty
by being schooled in the pointlessness
of the pythagorean theorem...
so, what's new?
          you can't forgive, & forget...
the semblance of the two being
required misses the point that:
one is actually the other...
you can only forgive by forgetting...
beyond good & evil:
    there's no love or hate involved...
           there are but three prime
faculties of man:
imagining, thinking, memorising...
       i count no others...
     the god father the son man and
the congratulatory congregation
can **** my big toe when it comes
to cubic parameters of narration...
       the mantras of the memory,
the thinking of the son -
  and the imaginings of the father:
how this could have been,
an almost perfect, world.
                         i'll sooner kneel before
a guillotine than his religion
of icon upon icon upon icon
upon the blaspheming tongue,
waggling toward the gates of inferno,
masochistic in a self-righteous tone;
horrid obscure, sentenced saint of
the trans-gender abomination of:
    if it weren't for the heterosexuals,
you'd have a feast; a feast of: dodo.
god, i hate these nights,
  when the alcohol doesn't act like
a sedative, but, instead,
acts like oil thrown into a fire...
      it's beyond agitated, it's chaotic,
and free, and clearly in the mood
for gnashing the teeth,
                   and, perhaps, eating
some bone marrow...
                         but how can you
forgive, if you can't forget?
            sincerely one can only forgive:
if one can forget!
               but memory is a series
of tattoos...
one is already tattooed by
the african glee or the solstice of the north...
incubating a pseudo-albino...
            how can you forgive
if you can't forget?
        the only true forgiveness in this
world is a forgetfulness,
but invoking an enforced
forgetfulness is the persistence
in an erosion of mental faculties that
allow you to function...
        i abhor this callous carelessness of
the casual expression that's treated
as a insightful maxim...
    it's horseshit littered with sweetcorn pips;
what shanty town preaching
is this?!
         it's far more difficult to
forget your enemy, than it is to either love,
or hate them...
why?
              memory delves into
nostalgia that delves into a remorse of
returning tide of apathy, objectivity...
           it is far much harder to forget,
than it is to "forgive" - since the instructed
demand for amnesia also invokes
a sense of a "self": i.e. that which no longer
can be concrete, but transient.
                   i hate it when alcohol becomes
this agitating, and labours for a need for
scrupulousness...
     what a ****** pairing:
                i'm pretty sure the beatles learned
confucius with:
   live and let live...
                 who the hell would still
want to listen to a *******?!
                maybe, three generations from now,
people like will be classified as:
rebellious without a need to rebel,
or, part of a rebellion that only served
similar in origin and replica: iconoclasm...
this vein of thought is a stark
morphing of a cul de sac, a cave,
            and a serpentine of quroboros;
the reasoning of the greeks,
was never to be married to
  the "irrationality" of the hebrews...
            and did you ever wonder
why the 3 magi were not figures of revenge
of the persian empire?
         just wondered...
  why didn't they ever call it
the crown of myrrh?
            you seen myrrh?
          how it grows?
                      there's a crown for you,
right there...
                           no, i will not drop the already
dead piece of meat from my jaws...
   i will not b'aah b'aah when they next
light the christmas lights...
              i am just about this close
to performing the ritual of:
washing my hands clean, like pontius pilate,
from the whole affair...
        that's my answer to the ritual of baptism...
you either get confirmed,
  or you wash your hands clean
and say: c'est la vie!

it's a bit like listening to the soundtrack from
the lost boys: cry little sister...
eyes that feed off of eyes...
  *** where no word is spoken...

a ******* where two prostitutes are clean...
one puts on a ******... then takes it off...
the other puts on a ******... then takes it off...

no rubber hand-job...
"vampire" in the shadows...
werewolf in the moonlight...
all these trees... horrid summer...
come autumn and the perfumes of the rot of leaves,
it's sickly sweet allure!

i need these days to pass:
i need the eternal night...
   i need to hide from all this daily fatigue
of supposed productivity...
i hunger for the blood dripping from
the moon...
  give me: stille und nacht!
gib mir stille und der nacht!
  
                der kalte(r) schatten...
   ein kuss zu küssenzweimal!

argh!
              
             give me pardon to become
a monster! i need it... i feed off of it already!
i'll ******* die aged 70 and still be charged
like a Duracell bunny aged
mid 30s... which is sort of unfair...
i was... trully... hoping... starting a train model
scheme... collecting stamps...
what can you do?
      how i have had to mute my sexuality...
gay-pride brigades seem sort of funny...
no... really... funny: ha ha...

              gays are no less divergent from
heterosexuals...
         they're the same old hypocrites...
boring *******...
i'm so *** starved that the use of latex gimp suits
sort of puts me off...
what do i like?
oral ***... slurping on the oyster agenda...
having one's hair pulled...
having one's ears pulled...
like Lucifer being reborn...
                  
   i simply can't get enough of a woman's genital parts...
after all... didn't i come out of one?!
now me... slurping into one?
lodging my nose into one?
tongue nose and lips...
               it's ******* pristine eroticism...

it's almost as if i'd want to eat the un-edible...
the expressions on her face...
it's almost as if: she was never a foetus to ever
begin with...
i might be hallucinating but at the same time
i'm facing up to reality...

eh... women exploring ***...
it's so boring... they feel so angst-prone...
*** as retribution...
          i was born yesterday...
hello: new you... hello new me...
oh... what a kind offer...
              let's touch: let's go crazy...
my god... the comparison to counter scraping
your finger-tips on bricks to later translate
the same effort of touch onto a naked body
of a woman...

             i see no death:
beside the inability to live among...
all those that pretend both.

it's hard to wake up from spending
a month in a monastery of a novel
and entertain this...

this... the internet is hardly
a ******* Kandinsky...

but the odd prop comes up
to further the narrative...

off the top of my head...
the question eric metaxas
asks milo yiannopoulos:

do homosexuals
even like fleetwood mac?

ah... now i know what we're
"dealing" with..
cue:

  do heterosexual men
like simon & garfunkel?

really?
i only liked scarborough fair
because it was autumn,
and it was England,
and the wind and the leaves
and the suburban cement:
and i was reading
Dostoevsky at the time:
on the bus, going to school...

i was a teenager:
and naturally androgynous...
what teenager isn't
androgynous:
but some is fixated
on this:
yeah... and by looking
at a baby's face:
you can tell a babe male
from a babe female:
like you can tell a cucumber
from a zucchini...

one *******
leverage after another...

the song cecilia...
esp. after watching a movie
like kramer vs. kramer
or rosemary's baby...
is a "hard-on"...
like...
something from a Cuban
urban fresco...
peacock colors of
architecture...

the question, to reiterate:
do homosexuals like fleetwood mac?
dunno...
do heterosexuals like
simon & garfunkel?

unless they're teenagers,
entrenched in a russian novel...
autumn...
and...
                  i'm actually glad
in seeing Milo humbled...

at least this Icarus didn't die
but fell into the hands
of a lullabying cradle's worth
of hands and conversation...
      
it's hard...
after a month's worth of
engaging with a monastery's
worth of a novel,
reading in silence...

returning to this funfair,
this circus...
well...

        Elvis is still someone
other people adore,
Beethoven is someone
i can only listen to in transit...
a man, a season,
a fancy,
        and...
yes... i compete rather than
cling to a decree to
take the modus operandi
literally...

          a true poet of the flesh:
contra the poet of the mind...
which is me...
imbuing the transaction
of:
            ******* into a glass
of wine, and drinking it...
your flesh my flesh, mine...
you:
        how else...
            to resuscitate...
without agitating
the Hindu polytheistic
   paradox of reincarnation...

best i feud my blood with yours,
hey: yell'ah all the Vatican's
flag base...
          you will not being
reincarnated:
   but i can trickle
in a fervor to agitate the bowl...
and...
   imbue a mirror with
a ripple expanding
upon the face of a freezing
mirror...

this is becoming a ****'s worth
of farce:
   Versailles in their mouths...
but ***** in their minds
and Gomorrah in their hearts!
as long as:
dyslexia is not alleviated,
but sentenced to cipher...
in:

               a *******'s worth
that disregards the original
fate of hitting *****,
polar apart: no...
ping pong will always be
deemed counter-cultural...
what with tennis...
being tennis...
and... a no-sport whenever
the counter-cultural sports
allign at the Olympics...

   the one time you'd like
to spectate the counter-culture
of sport...
and you're still intruded upon
by the mainstream culture
of sport...
every single time i watch
the olympics on t.v.
i am... undermined by
how little time "obscure"
sports are given...
esp. the English
coverage:
who gives a **** about
the sport where the English
will win?!
can i see a sport for the per se
element?!

no... this isn't working...
either the cheap *** isn't working...
or i can't re-engage with
what is a month's worth
away from what was
prior to: my niche...

what ever this is...
this certainly wasn't...
   whatever this is...
whatever it was:
hardly a niche...
more like an iron maiden.

****** violence affects every demographic and every community – including lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer (LGBTQ) people. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), lesbian, gay and bisexual people experience ****** violence at similar or higher rates than heterosexuals. The National Coalition of Anti-Violence Projects (NCAVP) estimates that nearly one in ten LGBTQ survivors of intimate partner violence (IPV) has experienced ****** assault from those partners. Studies suggest that around half of transgender people and bisexual women will experience ****** violence at some point in their lifetimes.